


Not Scared To Fall

by spockandawe



Series: When I'm Falling I'm At Peace [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Depression, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Service, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: You jerk awake with your spark racing, only two kliks into your three-klik nap. That’s… wonderful. Just wonderful. You think you might even feel worse than you did when you decided to get some sleep, which is impressive, but it shouldn’t really be a surprise at this point. At least Cyclonus is still gone, which is one upside to this whole situation, and you’ll take what you can get.On the other hand, Bumblebee’s finally decided to join you, standing in front of you with his arms crossed, looking entirely too judgmental for your tastes. Just in case you thought today couldn’t get any worse.You don’t bother lifting your head from the desk.“Nowyou choose to make an appearance.”“I’ve been here the whole time, thanks. Sometime you should try turning around and lookingbehindyou. Really appreciate that little show, that was definitely something I wanted to see.”





	Not Scared To Fall

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172577922996/not-scared-to-fall-spockandawe-the)

You jerk awake with your spark racing, only two kliks into your three-klik nap. That’s… wonderful. Just wonderful. You think you might even feel worse than you did when you decided to get some sleep, which is impressive, but it shouldn’t really be a surprise at this point. At least Cyclonus is still gone, which is one upside to this whole situation, and you’ll take what you can get.

On the other hand, Bumblebee’s finally decided to join you, standing in front of you with his arms crossed, looking entirely too judgmental for your tastes. Just in case you thought today couldn’t get any worse.

You don’t bother lifting your head from the desk. _“Now_ you choose to make an appearance.”

“I’ve been here the whole time, thanks. Sometime you should try turning around and looking _behind_ you. Really appreciate that little show, that was definitely something I wanted to see.”

This processor ache is going to be an issue if it doesn’t go away soon. There’s still the whole rest of your day to deal with. You still don’t sit up, but you do boot down your optics and turn your head so your face is buried against the top of the desk. “Wasn’t supposed to happen. Didn’t want it to happen. And nobody’s forcing you to stay here and spy on me. Can go… frag off. Do other things.”

“Those are barely complete thoughts. Who am I spying for? And what else am I supposed to be doing?” Bumblebee stops himself and sighs. “Look, stop picking fights when you’re in no shape to have them. If I tell you that you need to get moving now or you’ll be late for your next meeting, are you going to disagree just to disagree, or will you play this sensible for once?”

Well now you _absolutely_ want to do whatever is the most spiteful, but your head is spinning too much to untangle what that even is. Does— getting up and cleaning yourself off mean you’re proving him wrong? Sure. Why not.

You do have to pause after you sit up and wait for a moment for your systems to stabilize and adjust, and for one awful nanoklik you think you’re about to purge your tanks. But it passes, and you prop one elbow up on the table so you can rest your face in your hand while you blindly rummage in your desk drawer.

The cleaning solvent and cloth are near the front of the drawer and easy enough to find, but the energon vials are buried towards the back. You grab the first one that comes to hand, but then have to look down to find the discreet little box of energon additives. Your vision swims, but you manage to take out one of the little packets and shove the box back into the drawer.

Bumblebee sighs. Pointedly.

“It’s the same kind of booster _any_ mech could buy on the streets.” He doesn’t say anything. You don’t look at him, but you can feel him watching. You down the vial in one swallow, but even just that much leaves you feeling overfull, and you have to pause for a moment and press the back of your hand to your mouth. Bumblebee is still silently watching you. You try not to sound defensive when you add, “And it’s nothing like the boosters I could have brought from Velocitron if I wanted, you know that.”

Still no answer.

Fine, you can ignore him too. You ignore him all through the rest of the day, all through the meetings and other slag that seems to take over every single day of your life. And you make it through the meetings, which wouldn't have been the case without those boosters. Maybe you _will_ order some stronger boosters from Velocitron, just watch. If that's what it takes to keep you functional, then fine. You'll do whatever it takes.

Bumblebee is more stubborn than you would have thought. He hangs around for the whole day, sometimes in your field of vision, sometimes not. But he doesn't speak up at all, which isn't like him. Usually you can expect a mildly disruptive, mildly helpful (mildly entertaining) commentary running all day. But he just watches quietly, even in the rare moments when you're alone and free to talk.

It means that by the time you finally head to your quarters for the night, you've worked yourself up into a fine mood and the headache is back with a vengeance, though you wouldn't be able to say how much of that is sleep deprivation and stress and how much is plain irritation.

And it means you're distracted enough you've forgotten about the reason this is happening in the first place, until you round a corner and see Cyclonus standing guard outside your door. _Lovely._

You haven't even had a chance to think through how you want to deal with this. You should have been doing that with the space you bought by sending him off to Rattrap. Frag, you're much, much too distracted to be dealing with _anything_ right now, this isn't safe. You're lucky nobody has just taken the chance to kill you and have done with it. Primus knows you probably wouldn't catch on until after you're good and slagged.

It's not like you can even pull back now and take a klik or two to pull some sort of plan together. He's seen you. You can't weaken your position by turning around now, and walking past pretending you were headed somewhere else will just look absurd. Where is he living? Rattrap would have placed him near your quarters, but how close? Not too close would be the sensible answer for an unknown quantity seeking close contact with the planet’s ruler, and would deprive you of easy access if he was someone you trusted—hilarious—but placing him extremely close gives him ample opportunity to attack or spy on you, and makes It more difficult to keep secrets.

The trouble is that you can't tell how Rattrap’s untrustworthiness would swing in this case, versus his loyalties and ambitions. Too much of a careless oversight. You should have made Cyclonus meet with him while you were there, so you could see how he was trying to manipulate the situation. Not that you would have had time for an errand like that, which is the entire reason you sent Cyclonus off on his own in the first place. Frag, this is a disaster from start to finish—

And _now,_ Bumblebee decides he’d like to chime in. “Starscream,” he says, sounding pained. “You don't—”

“My, aren't _you_ a diligent one,” you interrupt, speaking a little too loudly.

Cyclonus doesn't react beyond a slight incline of his head. Not a single word, even when you pause to give him a chance to talk.

Bumblebee hasn’t gotten the message. Before you have the chance to cut him off again, he finishes, “You don’t have to do this.”

You give that all the attention it deserves. Even on the good days, an argument with him over _have_ to, _need_ to, and _want_ to is only going to end badly. What you need to do right now is lock Cyclonus into position in your service and secure his loyalty on stronger grounds than a plain verbal agreement. He wants to serve. He wants to stay busy. What are you going to _do_ with him?

For the moment, you wave grandly as you brush past him and say, “Come inside.” Even if it only buys you a few nanokliks more to think, that’s worth it. When you unlock your door, he turns easily to follow you through, to your personal quarters.

You’re watching him more than you’re watching anything else, so you don’t miss him looking around the rooms as he enters. There isn’t much interest on his face, but then again, you suppose there isn’t much to be interested _by._ You remember the holovids of what architecture used to be like during the Golden Age, or— Slag, you think of what even Caminus achieves now, and feel a brief flash of shame. And _anger_ that you’re reacting that way. You have no reason to be ashamed. The planet was dead before you helped rebuild it, you deserve to be proud of the reconstruction you’ve done.

You aren’t. You keep your face pleasantly blank as he looks over your quarters. Your fuel tank does twist when you see the little model jet on the table beside your berth. It’s the only piece of decoration in your rooms, and under those conditions, it stands out painfully. You force those feelings to the side and wall them off.

To distract yourself, you do the quick daily sweep of your security systems to be sure nobody has sabotaged your quarters while you were out. That at least passes enough time for Cyclonus to finish.

He turns to face you and bends his head. “What would you have me do?”

You hesitate for a moment. Past Cyclonus, you can see Bumblebee shaking his head. You cross your arms and hedge your bets. “I’ll need some more time to think through that question.”

Cyclonus frowns, looking up at you. “I have told you I would prefer to remain—”

“Active, yes. I’m aware.” You’re expecting the protests, and you can... remember how entertaining it is to dance around someone’s efforts to pin you down or corner you, but right now you only feel like you’re trying to wade through mud. “It hasn’t even been a full day, and I’ve been busy since you left this morning. I don’t have an answer for you yet.”

He doesn’t keep pushing, which is a relief. But that frown doesn’t leave his face, which is less than ideal. Will he give you a day to figure this out? Even just the night? You’re starting to think he might not. And if you push him to that point, you’re surrendering the power in the negotiations. Not in the practical sense, but in the _personal,_ and you get the feeling that will be more important than anything else with this mech.

Cyclonus still hasn’t looked down or away, and is still watching you patiently (stubbornly?) waiting for an answer. Just think, if you’d thought this through during the day, this wouldn’t be an issue now.

“We can start you off on bodyguard duty,” you try. That won’t do for long, though, not if he wants you to keep his mind occupied. You’re too tired for this nonsense. It makes you want to take more of those circuit boosters, but that would mean you wouldn’t get a klik of recharge all night, and you’re _already_ too exhausted to function. You take a chance and push. “You have to understand why I’d be reluctant to give a government job to a mech who tried to destroy the planet.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his frown does shift. Though he doesn’t protest, so at least that’s something.

After a moment, he says, “Please understand that I don’t consider most— labor to be beneath me.”

 _“Really.”_ You weight that word with all the sarcasm you can muster and turn away, trying to think. What a trap, even if he doesn’t think he’s saying it that way. No bounds for you to judge by, but when you misstep, he’s free to react with all the righteous indignation he thinks he deserves. If you could afford to torque him off without putting yourself at risk, you’d tell him to go scrub out Metroplex’s waste chutes for a few months.

Then suddenly you hear Cyclonus move behind you, and it’s a mark of how tired you are that you don’t even manage to flinch, never mind a proper defensive reaction.

You can hear Bumbebee saying, “It’s fine, don’t—” But you miss the rest of whatever he’s trying to tell you, you’re busy doing your best not to trip over your own feet, and trying to look _completely_ unconcerned and not like you just almost jumped out of your own frame.

Cyclonus is close, close enough to make it clear just how much he looms over you. Your defensive subroutines are finally coming online, thank you, very timely, and you have to focus on keeping them in the background. If it came down to a fight— You know just how good you are, but you’re barely managing to stay upright most days lately, and you saw the vids of what Cyclonus did to anyone who got in his way before the end of the war.

The two of you are frozen like that for a moment. You don’t like the how far you have to look up to meet his optics. If he’s trying to make a point here, maybe it will be enough of an excuse for you to lock him up, or ship him off the planet, or _something_ that makes him someone else’s problem for a little while, even if you’re almost certain it will come back to bite you in the aft later.

Then he drops to one knee. A pledge of loyalty, you think for one wild moment, and you— want that, you realize. You wouldn’t believe it but you _want_ it, and you’re furious at yourself for feeling that way.

He says, “If I may serve, in _any_ way—” He hesitates for half a nanoklik, but reaches out, his claws brushing against the plating of your thigh.

Then you finally realize what he means, of course. Perhaps you should have taken those extra circuit boosters after all. You don’t have a response scripted for this kind of offer, and you’ve already undermined yourself by being the one to initiate the dynamic, even if you’d never thought it would mean— _this._

You manage, “So that wasn’t a one-time event, then?”

“No,” he simply says, his claws brushing over your plating again. You force yourself not to shiver at the sensation as his fingers skim across the metal, but then you lose that battle when he slides one hand between your legs, his claws bright points of sensation against the metal of your inner thigh.

Bumblebee drifts a little closer. You don’t look at him, but you can’t do anything more than pretend that you don’t see him. “You don’t have to do this,” he sighs.

You catch a glimpse of Bumblebee’s expression, and for a moment your spark flares up with humiliation and anger. _No._ You shut him out of your mind entirely and focus on Cyclonus. You smooth your face into a smile. “How could I say no to such a... gracious offer?”

Because you’re watching him closely, you can see his frame relax fractionally, and he leans in toward you without any hesitation. On the edge of your vision, you can see Bumblebee turn and pointedly walk away. You ignore that. You focus on Cyclonus and his hands on your plating, his mouth almost touching your array. His knuckles brush against your panel, and you can’t stop your hips from twitching.

But before it can go any further, he rocks back on his heels again and looks up at you. He asks, “Where do you want me?”

Ah. Like before, you freeze up. This wasn’t something you _wanted_ , so of course you never bothered to consider the question. But that doesn’t mean you want to do this standing in the middle of your berth chamber floor. He glances away from you for a moment, sideways, towards the berth. And you know what? Fine. That’s good enough for you.

“The berth, of course. Where else?” You even manage a little bit of a leer, even though you’re also pulling back from his hands and stepping away from him. He rises to his feet smoothly, though this time you’re expecting the height and don’t let yourself crane your neck back to look up at him. You don’t know if that _means_ anything to him, but you’re not letting him have any satisfaction if it does.

And— You remember. “Sword off,” you say airily, as if it’s of no concern. "No weapons in the berth, general policy.” Your plating is crawling at the idea you almost forgot that again. Missing it the first time? Horrifying but almost understandable. But _again?_

At least Cyclonus doesn’t argue the point. You turn from him, going to the berth, but you’re listening to whatever you can hear behind you. He moves too quietly for your tastes. You think you hear him set the sword aside, and fine, that’s good enough for now.

You reach the berth before you can think of an excuse _not_ to do this, and slide onto it before Cyclonus can make his way back over to you. This conversation might have derailed disastrously, but you’ll hold onto whatever scraps of control you can salvage.

Once you’re there, you can’t quite convince yourself to settle flat on your back, so you settle for propping yourself up on one elbow and watching as Cyclonus crosses the room to you. You can’t read his face, and you don’t like that. You might know what’s driving him, but if he’s doing this because of _grief,_ then he’s volatile and dangerous and you need to be able to tell what he’s thinking. This would be easier if you could just afford to have him killed.

Cyclonus hesitates beside the berth, one of his hands resting beside you. He asks, “Where do you want me?”

You force a sigh. “Do I have to make _all_ the decisions? You don’t need to get on here with me.” If he was on top of you right now, pinning you to the berth— No. Absolutely not, no. This is unfortunate, as it is, but that would be something else altogether. “Past that, use your own judgment.”

There are so, so many ways that could go wrong for you, you know that well enough. It’s an inexcusably bad call, but there’s only so much of this that you can handle. At least it seems to be enough for Cyclonus. He steps up closer to the side of the berth and reaches one hand between your legs again, nudging your thighs apart. His fingers rub over your panel once, and you shift in place, feeling the heat already start to build. It’s only— expectation. You know what’s about to happen, it’s not strange your body would react.

The next pass of his fingers is more firm, and he lets his claws just barely graze against your plating. Your fans stutter, and he does it again. It’s— good. This is good. It’s just a transaction between you and him, a simple exchange, and both of you know what you’re getting into. He’s getting what he wants, and you don’t have any reason to say no to an occasional overload or two. You don’t have to like him, don’t have to trust him. Until today, it had been long enough since anybody but you had their hands on your array.

So you sigh and try to let the tension slide from your frame, relaxing back against the berth and letting your legs fall a little further apart. His fingers are still moving against your panel, letting the heat and charge build under his hand, coaxing your panel open.

You’re doing a little better than you were this morning, but it still doesn’t take much time to give in, and you feel your panel slide open under his fingers. Your spike pressurizes, but he ignores that for the moment, his fingers resting against your valve.

Your fans catch for a moment, waiting for his fingers to slide into you, but it doesn’t happen. They just rest against you, lightly, moving with a rhythm so light it’s difficult to tell it’s even happening. Every time they press against your valve, you think that now, _this_ time— but it never happens.

When you look up, you can see Cyclonus looking down at you. Your plating burns for a moment, wondering what he can see on your face, but— frag it, you set your jaw and power down your optics. You’d rather just pretend he’s not doing it in the first place than see his face. You don’t want to see his expression while he’s _watching_ you.

It’s easier like this. You don’t have to look at anything, you can just focus on the sensation of his fingers against you. The touch is so light it’s almost torture, just hard enough that you can’t ignore it completely, you’re just always desperate for _more._ It doesn’t take long for you to give up on self-restraint and try rocking your hips up into his hand, but he only moves with you, refusing to give you anything more.

And then he shifts, and his fingers move to rub over and around your node, then back to your valve. Still not _in_ you, still just a little too light, and you can feel your fans spinning up faster and faster as he teases you.

For a moment, your hips leave the berth, pushing up into that touch, and then you feel his other hand on you. It settles onto your waist, Cyclonus gently but firmly pressing you back down into the berth. For a moment, you consider snapping at him, but you’re not going to make yourself look that ridiculous. And you’re not going to beg him for more. You can handle this much, you can outlast whatever he’s planning to do to you.

You think that to yourself, but it doesn’t do much to stop you from straining against the hand holding you down, fighting to arch up into his touch. Your fingers scrabble at the surface of the berth, but there’s nothing to hold onto, nothing you can use to steady yourself.

And then, _finally,_ he presses one finger into you. Your fans skip a beat, and you have to bite back a noise, and even though you strain against the hand pinning you down, he holds you in place effortlessly. It’s only one finger, not enough, not _nearly_ enough. You bite your lip so you don’t ask for more. And then you remember that he’s _watching_ you and force yourself to relax your face. But then all you want to do is ask—beg—for more than this, and you bite your lip again so you don’t give in.

It feels like he keeps you there for hours like that, nothing but the slow, steady movement of that one finger inside you. Your chronometer says otherwise, but it _feels_ like an eternity. Your core temperature is climbing, and your fans are running as fast as they can, pouring off heat. And then he pulls his hand away from your array. You choke back a protest, because you will _not—_ But then he adds another finger.

The stretch still isn’t anything remarkable, less than what you could handle, but still— The feeling of his fingers moving inside you, sliding easily, pressing against the walls of your valve— It’s been too long, though nobody could ever persuade you to admit that out loud. You hear him move slightly, and you strain against the hand holding you down, but that’s as immovable as ever. The fingers inside you shift, and you curse to yourself, trying to thrash but pinned motionless.

And then he gets his thumb on your node.

At that point, you can feel the overload looming. It’s still out of reach, you’re still not ready to finish, but it’s _there,_ you’re close, you’re so close. You boot up your optics without thinking, because just the sensation alone without anything to distract you, it’s almost too much. Cyclonus is still watching you, and you— You don’t shut your optics down again, but you look away, off to the other side of the room. Your fans are straining, and your heels dig into your berth as you fight to arch up into Cyclonus’s hands.

His thumb presses just a little bit harder against your node, and that’s all it takes. You overload with a strangled noise, one you’ll be embarrassed about later but can’t bring yourself to regret now. You thrash helplessly, though his one hand still holds you motionless as the other works against your array. His fingers keep moving inside you as you shake, his thumb keeps rubbing circles over and over your node.

You feel almost lightheaded as you finally start to come down from the overload, and you feel disconnected enough from your own body that you almost don’t notice Cyclonus’s hands leaving your frame. All you can do is lie there, staring at the ceiling, your fans spinning so fast your bearings ache. Your valve aches too, pleasantly. You’d forgotten how nice that could feel.

Cyclonus stays where he is, standing over you, unmoving. That’s enough to distract you from your thoughts. You don’t want to watch him watching you. But you don’t want to let him think he has that kind of power over you, you won’t be scared away from watching him just because it’s _uncomfortable._ So you force yourself to look at him. And immediately begin to regret that decision. You don’t— You don’t know what the expression on his face means. Your head is spinning as your fatigue starts to catch up with you again, but the way he’s looking at you seems almost… _appraising._

He reaches for you again. You can’t make your processor work fast enough to, to distract him or protest or anything useful like that. He bends over you, and before your processor can catch up, his hand is back on your valve and his mouth is on your spike.

It’s soon, too soon, so soon after the overload it’s almost pain. Your spike hasn’t even finished depressurizing, and the feeling of his glossa against that plating is so intense you almost can’t parse it at all. His fingers are back in your valve, and now— _Three_ fingers inside you, enough that you can feel the stretch and pressure of it, his thumb on your node again even though you can’t quite decide whether you want to moan or scream.

You try to bite back your reaction, but the muffled helpless sounds still slip out of your vocalizer with every movement of his fingers. Your spike is pressurizing again, slowly, by degrees, and you can feel Cyclonus’s glossa teasing at it as it gradually extends again. It’s almost too intense to bear. The movement of his thumb over your node is insistent, and the pressure of his fingers inside you is unrelenting. You’re close already, so close, and you can tell that even already, it will hardly take anything to tip you over the edge.

His mouth slides down over your spike, and you can’t look away from him, but you realize— That’s your spike you’re seeing, your spike in his mouth, through his cheeks. You can see his glossa pressed against you inside his mouth, see the way your spike shifts as he moves against you, up and own. He pulls back and you feel and _see_ his glossa tease at your transfluid channel.

It’s too much and you couldn’t hold back the overload if you tried. You don’t have to try to stay quiet, your vocalizer locks up and all you can do is shake silently and stare blindly at the ceiling as the overload sweeps through you. It’s faster, less drawn out, but it leaves your circuits feeling scorched and sore, and you don’t think you trust your legs to hold your weight. When Cyclonus pulls his fingers out of you, you can’t help a shocked wordless noise, and you twitch away from his hands before you can control yourself.

You let your optics dim. You need to. Something. You need to tell Cyclonus to go away or, or back to his quarters, _something,_ but you can barely manage to think right now and you don’t know how you’ll manage talking. You hear him move, and some part of your processor decides he’s about to attack you— But he isn’t. It’s only footsteps, moving away, nothing but footsteps. Maybe he’ll leave on his own and spare you the trouble.

No such luck, he returns moments later and comes to a stop beside your berth. He doesn’t say a word, but you can practically feel the expectation in the air as he waits for you to react. You don’t groan, even though you badly want to, and force your optics to boot up again. You wince away from how bright the overhead lights are, which is bad enough, but then when you move to sit up, you’re so dizzy that going upright means you come _this_ close to purging your tanks.

Cyclonus either doesn’t notice—not likely—or just doesn’t react. That’s more likely. And that’s not much, but thank Primus for small mercies. You try not to sway— You do your best to minimize how much you sway, and finally, _finally,_ try to focus your optics on him.

He holds out an energon cube. “You need to refuel,” he says.

You do. But not when _he’s_ telling you to. “Presumptuous,” you say, and school your face into a sneer.

He’s completely unrattled, and you feel like an idiot for even trying something so juvenile. You shouldn’t be playing these games when you’re struggling just to remain upright. But you can’t help adding, “It’s nothing urgent, you don’t need to concern yourself.”

He says, “Judging by the color of your optics—” He looks intently at you, and you suppress the urge to turn away or demand he _stop._ “Fuel levels are below five percent. Possibly closer to three.”

You want to cover your optics, or order him to stop _looking,_ and never even mind the realization that someone can apparently look at your _optics_ and determine your fuel levels. Fortunately, old habits die hard, because it’s easy to smooth your face into a blank, dismissive expression and tell him, “You must be mistaken. Don’t overstep your bounds.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t agree either, and he _certainly_ doesn’t look like he believes you. But your processor ache is starting to creep back and the dizziness hasn’t stopped being an issue, and you just.. don’t have it in you to press this point right now. You’ll figure out a suitable lie when you’re feeling better and cut him off next time.

You manage to gesture grandly at him without looking too much like that action almost overbalances you. “You may go,” you tell him. “I’ll expect you again in the morning.”

He bows once, without hesitation. And as he turns to leave, he sets the energon cube on the berth beside you. You almost snap at him to come back here and take that with him, but it’s— not important, it doesn’t matter that much, there’s no good reason for you to push this specific point right now. You dim your optics as much as you can without running completely blind. But on his way out, Cyclonus stops to dim the lights. You also have to bite back the impulse to tell him to turn those back on, because honestly, Primus, this is the best thing he could have done right now, don’t tell him to _undo_ it just because you didn’t think of it first.

Bumblebee drifts in on the edge of your vision. You don’t acknowledge him until you hear the door to your quarters shut behind Cyclonus.

“Here to scold me, I suppose,” you say.

“Knock that off,” he sighs. “Go ahead, just try to tell me you’re in any shape to pick a fight.”

You aren’t. But he doesn’t have to _say_ it.

After a moment of silence, he adds, “And don’t throw away that energon either. You’re not proving anything to anyone, and if you don’t have refuel at least a little, you’re going to regret it in the morning.”

It’s not fair when he sweeps in and makes all these reasonable points without leaving you a decent angle to argue about it. Besides, you can see all the low fuel warnings your frame is sending you. If you go to recharge like _this,_ it’s going to be a struggle to even get to the energon dispenser in the morning.

Still, the logistics of grabbing the cube and picking it up and drinking from it— Too many steps. You can barely think to the next moment, never even mind something that complicated. And you get the sinking feeling you’ll fall off the berth if you try to lean back to drink from the cube. So there’s that.

Of course, when you look down, there’s already a straw sitting in the cube. Of _course_ there is.

And wonder of wonders, Bumblebee isn’t pressuring you while you stagger from one thought to the next. _Fine._ You manage to wrap your fingers around the cube and lift it far enough to reach the straw, even though it barely feels like your arm is attached to the body and it’s a struggle to remember how fingers work. You manage about three sips before your fuel tank rebels, but it’s enough to take the edge off the low fuel warnings and the dizziness. Imagine that, actually refueling makes you feel better.

When you set the mostly-full cube aside, Bumblebee adds, “If I tell you to get some rest, are you going to actually listen to me there too?”

Loftily, you tell him, “You don’t get to take credit for things I was already going to do.”

 _“Right,”_ he says, sounding amused. You ignore that.

Besides, if you’re already on your berth, you might as well lie down. You’re halfway there already. You just have to lean over sideways and gravity takes care of the rest for you. The dimmed lights are helping with the headache too. It might not be going away, but it’s not getting _worse._ You manage to settle down on your back without feeling like you’re about to purge your tanks or pass out, _and_ without knocking the cube off your berth, so you quietly mark that off as a victory.

Though you do realize that thanks to the distraction, you didn’t bring any datapads to your berth chamber like you usually do. When you can’t recharge, that way you can at least be productive. But now all your datapads are in your other rooms, and if you wanted to retrieve any, you’d have to get up.

That isn’t going to happen, you decide. You’re settled now. You’re _comfortable._ And just the thought of looking at a backlit screen right now is making your processor throb. Bumblebee has drifted off somewhere, or at least is being quiet. The lights are nice and dim, even if you leave your optics booted up, and lying here like this is… nice. You aren’t sleeping, and you don’t know if or when you’ll be able to sleep, which is just business as usual. But even lying here awake and staring at the ceiling, you can feel yourself relaxing. If you aren’t asleep, you _ought_ to be working, but— In the morning. You’ll do it in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172577922996/not-scared-to-fall-spockandawe-the)


End file.
